


The One Who’ll Go After You

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revenge tag (sorta): There was always hope left in a life that contained<br/>someone who’d go after you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Who’ll Go After You

Written: 2000

First published in "Seasoned Timber 3" (2004)

  The clock on the nightstand ticked loudly, counting off minutes to nowhere, amazingly loud in the otherwise stifled room.  Funny, in a rat-trap like that, he’d have thought that the thin walls would filter every noise from the adjoining rooms, ruining any illusion of solitude, but all was quiet.  It would have never been so in the city, but the city was a long way away now.  

  He actually had no idea how far or how long he’d driven, or exactly where he was.  A disinterested glance at the torn laminate placard by the clock declared the rat-trap to be the “Shellmire Inn,” for all the good that did him.  “Shell” no doubt from the ocean that was only, oh, a good fifty miles away or so, and “mire” for...his state of mind?  That was appropriate.  It didn’t really matter.  The only reason he was there was because that was as far as he’d gotten before running down.  

  Starsky closed his eyes.  He was so tired.

  This wasn’t usually his way, he thought wearily as his eyes reopened to stare at the clock.  Hutch would sure be surprised.  Starsky was the one who tended to explode, uncontainable, when things got to be too much.  He could soak in self-pity with the best of ‘em, but he always came back fighting.  No, of the two of them, Hutch was the brooder.  He was the one who got overwhelmed and climbed into himself, leaving his partner to coax him out.  And the one who calmed Starsky when he was the one who lost it.  Hutch wouldn’t even know where to look for him, never expecting this from his partner.  It didn’t matter.  Even Hutch couldn’t fix what was broken inside him this time.  

  Broken...like she was...

  He couldn’t even summon the anger anymore, or the collapsing grief, couldn’t cry anymore from the huge emptiness inside him.  All the emotions had drained from him, just like his will.  Life had narrowed to that drab little, quiet room, no future beyond its thin door.

  No future inside it, either.  

  The clock ticked on.  

  Hitting rock bottom--it sounded like something painful.  Who knew it would be feeling nothing at all?  Starsky had looked at her lifeless body and seen the resemblance immediately, and felt only the need to get out of there.  And an hour later, as he’d left Parker, instead of turning toward home he’d simply...gone until he couldn’t go anymore.  He’d driven, directionless, until even the panic of claustrophobia faded and he was totally hollow inside.  It had taken all his energy just to stumble into the first place he’d come upon and then just sit.  

  _Tick, tick, tick._   The sound seemed louder in the almost-dark room.  He considered getting up to turn on a light, or even going to bed, but didn’t follow the thought.  He didn’t think he could find it in himself to do anything more than just sit there on the edge of the bed.  There was nothing left to draw on.  Even hatred of the job wouldn’t come, giving him no target to rail at for taking so much away from him.  Taking her...

  Starsky dragged a sudden breath in as if he hadn’t had one for a while.  Maybe he could sit there forever, never get up or do anything.  Why not?  He was tired in the way no sleep would cure.  Besides, sleep brought dreams like those when she’d first died, and he didn’t think he could bear those again...

  He shrank from the reminder.  No, he wouldn’t sit there forever.  He’d go mad long before then.  Hell was other people, Hutch had once quoted some famous guy, but he’d been wrong.  Hell was being alone with yourself.  

  A knock sounded at the door.  

  It didn’t interrupt the ticking, and Starsky ignored it.  He’d already paid, shoving his credit card at the clerk when he’d gotten there.  Surely there was enough credit on it to cover him until he quietly lost it?

  The knob turned and the door opened behind him, the door he hadn’t bothered to lock.  No peace even here.

  “Starsky?”  

  Something ignored trembled inside.  _Oh, God, please, not now._   He wasn’t even up to standing and walking out the door, let alone talking.  Let alone facing the return of pain that talking surely would bring.  He preferred emptiness to being filled with that corrosive ache.  

  “Starsk.”  The voice grew softer and, conversely, harder to ignore.  The tall form, fluid when it wasn’t clumsy, rounded the bed and entered his frame of vision, sitting in the vinyl chair beside the bed.  

  He couldn’t hear the clock anymore.  Starsky pulled his eyes away from it and tried to focus on his partner, but staring at the row of buttons on the plaid shirt seemed the best he could do.    

  “It was her, wasn’t it?” his partner asked, so gently.  “Cheryl Shore?”

  _Cheryl_ \--Starsky had always felt for the victims of the crimes they investigated, but rarely let himself get involved.  But Cheryl...The hole inside threatened to eat its way out right through him.  He flinched, shutting his eyes against the row of buttons.  

  The voice leaned closer, relentless and sympathetic.  “I saw it too, the hair and the build...”

  _...the face, the eyes..._ Cheryl Shore had been a stranger, but she’d been a slap-in-the-face lookalike of someone far more dear.  Starsky wished his partner would shut up even as he knew it was too late.  

  “And it’ll be a year next week, won’t it?”

  He couldn’t breathe.  He shot to his feet, forgetting that the month-old gunshot wound in his leg didn’t take well to sudden movement.  The leg buckled and suddenly Starsky was on the floor.  It hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain inside his chest, the cavity filled with hot despair.  

  Starsky gave up.  The rocks on the bottom did cut after all, you just didn’t feel them right away.  He curled forward, arms wrapped tight around himself, trying to lose himself in insensibility because this hurt too much...

  He was barely aware of Hutch clambering down to join him on the thin carpet.  Something warm was pulled around him, and then an arm went about his shoulders and held him fast.  

  Maybe it wouldn’t keep him from breaking apart, but right now it was all the comfort he had.  Soundlessly, Starsky buried his face in the plaid shirt.  

  “Starsky...” came the sigh from somewhere just above his head, as Hutch’s other arm went around him and rubbed his back.  “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?  I’m sorry, buddy, I know you didn’t need the reminder of Terry just now.”  

  Oh, God, it hurt, as if he hadn’t had a year since to heal.  Just when he’d thought he’d gone on with life after losing her, it had all suddenly screeched to a halt.  And he just didn’t have the strength to get going one more time.  

  He was shaking, he suddenly realized.  His hands had trembled the whole time he’d driven, but that was nothing compared to these great shudders that suddenly wracked him, physical reaction finally following the mental.  He was too tired to even try to quell it.  But Hutch didn’t seem disturbed by it, just hanging on tighter.  

  “You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” he said quietly.  “You’re not the only one who misses her, Starsk.”

  He groaned silently, squeezing his eyes shut against the soft fabric.  She’d been so beautiful.  He’d thought so from the moment he’d seen her, and when she’d laughed at his opening line and gone out with him anyway, he’d already known he was in love.  That was the surface stuff, all joy and pleasure.  Getting to know and treasure her had been the deep-down part, her becoming a part of him.  That was when he’d really learned to love her.  

  And then came the shooting and the agonizing too-few weeks of knowing she’d be gone soon.  None of it had prepared him for when she’d really left him, though.  They’d become too conjoined for her departure not to take a large piece of him with her, leaving him bleeding, incomplete, in horrible pain.  He’d have bled his soul out right there if not for the shadow of his faith still remaining, and this one persistent man beside him now.  More than persistent: loving.  Only love could have eased the gaping wound left by love lost.  

  Love like what had led his partner to come after him and then hold him together amidst all the chaos.  Now it was the first thing he’d felt in forever that didn’t hurt.  

  More collected around it.  The good memories of Terry, and sorting through them discovered more joy than sorrow.  The people he cared about that were still with him.  The worn but untarnished faith that had kept him going through nearly nine years on the force.  There was peace enough to counter the pain, he’d just lost the path to it before.  

  A line of fingers gently scratched their way up and down his back, reminding him of the way.  And the tremors slowly began to abate.  

  Maybe this was survivable after all--was that possible?  The flood was receding inch by inch, leaving sorrow and fatigue in its wake, but no longer despair.  And the hope stayed. 

  _Tick, tick, tick._  

  He suddenly was aware of the clock again, its ticking calming.  Starsky turned his head a little so he could breathe easier, and the clock grew louder.  It was the only sound in the darkened room besides the pulse of his own heartbeat in his ears, and the rhythm of Hutch’s soft breathing, felt as much as heard.  

  And then he stopped thinking about anything at all, as night quietly settled around them.  

  Hutch finally stirred.  “Hey, partner.  It’s late--why don’t you lie down?”  

  That actually sounded good.  Starsky reluctantly leaned back a little, the blanket around his shoulders sliding to the floor as he let his partner rise, then help him up.  His healing leg was hopelessly cramped from huddling on the floor, but he didn’t have to stand, sitting on the edge of the bed instead as he tiredly pulled off his socks and shoes.  Hutch held on to his shoulder so he wouldn’t lose his balance.  Just like he’d been doing for the last hour.  

  Starsky was still so utterly tired, but it didn’t feel permanent anymore, exhaustion of the body rather than of the spirit.  The emptiness inside was just harmless fatigue now, and after some sleep he could face the idea of reentering the world outside.  They’d sort things out then; Hutch would know how even if he didn’t.  

  It only took a nudge from his partner for Starsky to climb under the covers and curl up.  He yawned widely, then squinted at the blond shadow next to him.  “Hey...how’d you know where t’find me?”

  “Your credit card.  You’d make a lousy fugitive, you know that?”  Fond amusement colored the voice.  

    Starsky snorted, watching through half-closed eyes as Hutch settled back into the chair beside the bed.  No doubt later he’d stretch out on the floor or on the other side of the large bed, but for now he was keeping watch over his partner, as he’d come all that distance to do.  There was always hope left in a life that contained someone who’d go after you when you ran...  

  A quiet peace coated the room.  And Starsky fell asleep to the soft ticking of the clock.  


End file.
